


Easy Money

by turps



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-28
Updated: 2011-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:01:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Strangers prompt for slashfic_25.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy Money

_I´m not available right now, leave a message and I´ll get back to you._

Chris´ cell lands in the fruit bowl, hidden between a wrinkled apple and the empty bags of candy. It´ll stay there until his next incoming call, when the muffled ring-tone will drive him crazy while he franticly searches for the stupid thing. Chris knows this, but still leaves it there. It´s either that or throw it at the wall, and he´s over his quota for new phones already this year.

It´s just Getting hold of Lance is impossible. He´s never home and all Chris wants to do is say hi. Instead he´s trapped in a game of phone tag, leaving increasingly brief messages while Lance lives his life. It´s not like Lance never calls back; he does, but it´s always at some insane hour of the morning, yelled conversations held over blasting music. They´re speaking, sure, but not communicating; talking without hearing the words.

Sighing, Chris runs his fingers through his hair. The length is still a surprise. It´s been forever since his hair last brushed against his neck, and there´s a whisper of years-gone-by as he combs out a curl. Taking a black bandanna, he ties it around his head and swaps his glasses for sunglasses. He feels like a tool wearing them indoors, but the headache that has been clinging to the edge of his vision shows no sign of going, and it´s sunshine bright in the kitchen.

Pouring another cup of coffee, cream with two sugars, Chris sits at the small breakfast bar, cradling the warm mug in his hands. There´s a pile of magazines and papers under the empty beer bottles and he moves some of the empties, so he can pull free a glossy magazine. The cover is damp, a red stain spreading across Angelina´s face. Easing the pages apart, Chris sips at his coffee, scanning the articles, and stops when he sees Lance.

He looks good and Chris can´t help smiling at the picture. Laughing at Lance always makes him feel better, and this is classic Lance, toothy smile and dorky finger-horns, leaning against one of his many female friends.

The blurb is small, but at least it´s accurate, unlike last month when Chris had the pleasure of ribbing JC about his latest sex romp with three teenage girls for over a week. Remembering that makes Chris smile around his mug, and he keeps smiling as he reads about Lance´s upcoming appearances, the plans he has for the future.

They´re plans Chris has heard before, dreams and ambitions revealed to the background of bus noise when they were touring. Years later and Chris has watched those plans become reality. Lance is a player in the industry, a minor one sure, but he´s making it. He´s also happy, and that´s the most important thing of all.

~*~*~*~

It´s four thirty-eight a.m. and Lance is finally home. He slides out of the cab and stumbles a little, his feet catching against the small stones. Hand splayed, he balances against the open door, fumbling for his wallet and takes out a fifty. The driver twists in his seat, smiling at the large tip. Pocketing the money, he bids Lance goodnight, and drives away as soon as Lance shuts the car door.

Lance shivers as he walks. The wind makes the plants rustle and he peers into the night. He pushes his wallet back into his pocket and hooks out his keys from his pocket, folding his hand around the warm metal. The porch light shines, beckoning Lance home. He blinks against the glare, and carefully navigates the steps, counting, one two three, until he´s at the door.

Four tries and the key slides into the lock. A twist of wrist and the door opens; Lance leaves it ajar and hurries for the alarm. Two false alerts this month already and he doesn´t want anymore. He remembers the code this time - _I Want You Back_ choreography in number form - and the console beeps as he turns, takes his keys and kicks shut the door.

The stairs curve before him, unending and insurmountable. Lance walks past them with a shake of his head, running his palm over the polished wood of the banister. He makes for the kitchen, his feet clattering in the dark. He turns the faucet on, and watches the falling ribbon of water for a moment. Then he bends and turns his head, drinking directly from the stream. He´s thirsty and needs to wash the taste of old alcohol from his mouth; alcohol, rich pastries and the taste of defeat. Knees against a cold floor, his hands braced on a toilet lid and a stranger´s cock in his mouth.

Lance rests his elbows on the counter, spitting and gagging. Water splashes against his face but he doesn´t move, just stares down at the drain, at the evidence of his defeat washing away.

Exhausted, he slides to the floor, back against the cabinets and head down. He knows he should go upstairs, or to the couch at least, but he´s too tired just now. Will go in a minute, really he will, he needs time to regroup is all.

~*~*~*~

Groaning, Lance pulls himself upright, wincing as his stiff joints protest. His head is pounding and he rubs at his face, knuckles dragging across his lips. They feel crusty to the touch, battered and sore, and he pushes back memories as he pats at his pants, looking for his cell. The ringing has stopped when Lance finally flips it open, and he listens to the voice message, his assistant scolding while reminding him about his day.

He looks at his watch. It´s nine twenty-five, he´s got thirty minutes to shower, dress and get to the first meeting of the day. His stomach lurches when he pulls himself up, and he freezes as the room spins. He takes deep breaths, and then he clicks on the coffee machine, left ready and waiting by yesterday's maid, and makes for the stairs. He climbs them two at a time, pulling off his shirt as he goes, and in the bathroom he stuffs it into the basket as he turns on the shower. The room fills with steam as he kicks off his shoes. They land under the counter, soon joined by pants, socks and boxers, an untidy pile that´ll be cleaned away by someone else.

Stepping under the spray, he sighs, back curled and head tipped forward as the water pounds down, loosening tense muscles. Lance efficiently soaps himself down. Shower gel, shampoo, and then out of the cubicle to be wrapped in a fluffy blue towel. Teeth brushed, hair dried and styled. Into his closet and pull on clean clothes.

Lance walks out of his house with time to spare, travel mug of coffee clutched in his hand. He settles in his car and sips at the cup, savouring the caffeine hit and sugary taste. The radio's on low and Lance pulls out of his driveway, his mind already on the meeting ahead. He can´t mess this up, it´s too important, a step toward the respect he craves

~*~*~*~

The meeting is promising, handshakes and backslaps over offered scripts. Lance feels good about this one. He´s been chasing this deal forever, has writers, potential actors, a hot new director who´s destined for great things. All he needs is the money and they´re ready to go.

Of course getting that money is more difficult than it seems. Lance has money, but he´s not stupid, and he isn´t about to throw in his future on something as unstable as a movie. So he makes nice, plays to the money men and tries to forget the years where he could snap his fingers and have people cater to his every whim.

That´s in the past now, that sense of inevitable success packed away with the bling-bling crosses and the shiny pants. He keeps some of those tucked away in his closet, boxes full of the past. Sometimes he pulls out a necklace and lays it across his palm, like all his past glories dangling from one heavy chain.

We´ll be in touch, okay.’ Wilkinson thumps Lance across the back. It´s supposedly a friendly gesture, a manly goodbye, but Lance has been in the business too long, can see the contempt. It´s a look Lance sees often, smiling words concealing sneers.

I´ll look forward to it. I think this can fly.’ Lance thumps back, just that little too hard. He´s spent years trapped in testosterone filled tour buses, he´s worked side by side with roadies. This is nothing, and he smiles as he walks away.

The next meeting is at one. Lunch is a sandwich in the car, tuna on rye, eaten one handed as he drives to the gym. Twenty minutes on the treadmill, twenty on free weights, then Lance hits the machines. He´s flat on his back, muscles burning when he notices the TVs. They're all showing Backstreet, prancing around a stage in skin tight lycra and wigs. Whispers circle the room and Lance schools his expression, aware of the looks his way. He´s got no problem with Backstreet, never has, but the stares make him flush and he uncurls, sitting up and wiping at his face with his towel. Green Day replaces Backstreet, Billie Ray singing about twists in the road, as Lance stands and leaves the room.

The water is boiling. Lance loves these showers, it´s one of the reason he joined this gym, open twenty-four seven, with these luxury showers with their power settings that help ease aching muscles. He bends under the spray, forearm braced against the wall and eyes closed.

~*~*~*~

I´ll let you know.’

There´s no back punch this time, just a firm shake of hands and Lance is left to gather his papers alone. The meeting went okay, but nothing will come of it, he can tell; the disinterest is easy to see in Heslot´s eyes.

Pushing the script into his bag, Lance waves at the secretary, and thanks her for the coffee once more. The elevator´s empty when Lance steps inside, no piped music, no nothing, just much-needed quiet. He un-knots his tie, pulling at the green silk so it slithers from his neck.

Once inside his car Lance checks his voice mails. The first is a message from his mom, she´s asks if he´s eating right and concerns colours her voice, enough that Lance feels guilty as he deletes the message, promising himself he´ll phone soon. Joey next, insults and _phone me, dickwad_ , Chris and a you suck, Bass. Lance makes a mental note to return the calls. The rest are business, potential meetings and invitations to parties where Lance goes to be seen. He keeps those, ready to transfer to his calendar when he gets home.

The roads are jammed and Lance has one arm resting out the open window. He´s listening to the radio and can´t help tapping his fingers against the steering wheel when _Rock Your Body_ comes on. He used to hate the song, but that faded to resignation and then reluctant acceptance. Still, it´s automatic to fit his voice under Justin´s, echoing his words as the snarl of traffic inches forward.

~*~*~*~

Lance is rubbing shampoo into his hair when he hears the distant sound of _I Touch Myself_ , the ringtone Chris programmed in for himself months before. It´s the third time today and he mutes the sound by tilting back his head under the water. Suds sluice down his body and twist around his toes into the drain.

He´s grateful when the song cuts off and all he can hear is water splashing against the floor. This way it´s not his fault that he didn't pick up the call, he was showering and couldn´t get out in time, is all. Of course, that doesn´t excuse the other missed calls.

Finally clean, Lance steps from the shower and picks up a towel. It´s warm from being on the heated rail and he wraps it around his waist, cocooning himself in it. Wrapping a smaller one around his shoulders, he heads into his bedroom, and sits down on the bed.

His cell is on the bedside table, and he deliberately doesn´t look. The guilt is a background ache as he dries off and rubs moisturiser into his skin. Heel propped on a chair, Lance smoothes the lotion into his calf. It´s not that he doesn´t want to talk to Chris, to any of them. It´s just -- he feels like crap every time he does.

Lance has watched Nsync split five ways, the others moving on and doing their own thing and he can´t help feeling left behind. He´s expected to have his own life, be independent and successful, chase the dreams he spun so many years before -- and he has. He´s achieving those dreams, but at a cost that makes them feel like nightmares.

Talking to the guys is like picking a scab: something painful that Lance does while distracted with music and alcohol. Surface conversations achieved while Lance is fully absorbed in his act, happiness a glossy shield.

Of them all, talking to Chris seems the worst. Chris has had the fame, his time in the spotlight, and he's happy and content doing his own thing. He loves the music he´s writing, loves to sing with his new band, and that hurts each time Lance thinks about it, so he doesn´t, and keeps missing the calls.

Skin soft, Lance dresses, and shoves his cell in a pocket without looking at the display. He´ll call Chris later. Much later.

~*~*~*~

  
Lance, dude, we´re over here.’

Lance smiles a greeting, his palm flat against the damp heat of Jake´s back in a one-armed hug. You losers got a table yet?’

The best in the house, baby.’ Jake speaks like bagging the best table is inevitable, and maybe for him it is. Money counts for everything in this town, and Jake is rolling in it, enjoying a lifestyle that makes even Lance widen his eyes.

Following at Jake´s heels, Lance nods at acquaintances as they walk through the crowd. This kind of atmosphere seems hard-wired to his smile, he can feel his lips twitching, slipping into party mode. Always look happy to be there, to be seen, never let real feelings show. He´s a pro at this, can maintain it for hours.

Who´s here?’

Amber, Stacy, Mark, Jasper, you know, the usual.’ Jake throws the names over his shoulder, then suddenly stops and turns to Lance, grin wide and sly. I let some of the hangers-on sit; it´s been too long since you´ve had some play, dude. You can thank me later.’

Lance´s smile widens, contrasting with the churning in his belly. Jake and his posse don´t know about the late night trips to the bathroom, about the strangers he picks up most nights.

I´m so pleased to know you´ve been thinking about my sex life,’ He drawls.

Come on, of course I think of your sex life, I mean. Why wouldn´t I? Or lately, your lack of sex life, you sarcastic bastard.’ Jake giggles, and Lance can tell he´s amped, already following the well trodden path of their nights out. There´ll be someone you´ll like.’

I´m sure there is.’ Lance cranes his neck to their table, the usual gathering of people and a handful of men and women who would normally spend their time haunting the doors. They´re crowded around the table, perfectly groomed and laughing as Jasper spins some tale, his hands sketching details in the air.

They´re Lance´s friends; he spends almost every evening with them.

The most important thing he knows about them is their names.

~*~*~*~

Pretty, yeah?’

Jake whispers the comment, or at least attempts to; drugs and alcohol have obviously fried his volume control. He points a finger at the hangers-on, and they all preen under his gaze. You did good.’ Lance doesn´t attempt a whisper; it´s no secret why they´re there.

I always do good, dude.’ Jake eyes slide half closed and he leans heavily, his cheek hot against Lance´s neck. Have you picked one yet? Star maybe? Or Zen, he´s hot.’

He is.’ Lance has to agree, Zen is hot, the kind of guy Lance could easily go for.

Picking up his glass, Lance swallows the contents in one long gulp. He knows he won´t go home with any of these people. It doesn´t matter how attractive they are, how much they make him laugh. They aren´t what he needs.

So, you´re gonna´’ Jake slurs the question, patting Lance clumsily on the arm.

Maybe.’ Lance shrugs, his own version of no.

~*~*~*~

Three thirty and Lance is tense. He runs his fingers around the rim of his glass, a continuous note, hidden under the deep beat of the club. His friends are making noises about leaving, clinging together as they argue about which club to visit next, ready to party to dawn. This time, Lance stays put, left behind in flurry of kisses against his cheeks. Zen stays too, and Jake gives a thumbs up, winking, as he leaves. Two beautiful women escort him, triumphant and clinging to his body like a second skin.

Lance can see that same look in Zen´s eyes, and momentarily considers the easy option and taking him home. A no-strings fuck that would end before dawn, but even that´s too long, and Lance gently moves Zen´s hand.

I´m going home.’ He stands and staggers, catching his hip against the table. If you hurry you can catch the others.’

I thought.’ Zen remains sitting, looking up at Lance, confusion in the set of his mouth, the widening of his eyes. He looks every inch the boy he really is, and Lance feels ancient, skin tight and numb inside.

Go on.’ He waits, and Zen stands, the child washing away as the star-fucker sets his sights on other prey. Lance watches him go, and his hands tighten into fists, nails digging into his palms. His face aches from smiling, and he´s strung tight.

He knows he should go home; instead he drains his drink and slowly makes for the back of the club, to the bathrooms filled with the desperate. Those ready to take and offer anything as the night winds to a close.

It´s easy to score. Lance is a pro at weighing up, casting his eyes over the men who lean against the wash basins and doors. A 'you wanna?', an incline of his head and he's leading someone along the line. It´s sad, but he has his own preferred cubicle. Last one on the right, and he imagines if he looks closely enough he could see smeared prints on the tile, evidence of his own hands pressed against the sides.

They don´t speak.

Lance drops to his knees, heard turned slightly, so he's staring at the wall. He memorised the graffiti months ago now, phone numbers and obscene poems that don´t scan at all. He runs through every word that rhymes with cock and almost smiles at memories of JC curled in the bus, book of rhymes open on his lap. Then blue jeans crumple to the floor, and Lance thinks of nothing. Grips the toilet seat and holds on, lips tight and letting this stranger fuck his mouth, each thrust causing cracks that run deep inside.

The guy finishes with a moan. He pulls up his jeans without words, pushing past and out of the stall. Lance swallows and leans back, resting his head against the wall. He feels used and raw, dizzy as he pulls himself to his feet and back outside. His knees ache, and he wipes at his wet face. Over his lips and cheeks, under the delicate skin of his eyes

His momma would be horrified if Lance didn´t wash up.

He finds a sink and turns on the faucet, letting the hot water flow over his hands.

Lance. Dude. What.’

Blood rushes in Lance´s head, pushing sound far away. He braces himself against the counter, forcing himself to stay upright, trying to look up, to meet Chris´ gaze.

~*~*~*~

He wasn´t totally surprised to see Lance. This was his town, his kind of club, full of the rich and pretentious, but he hadn´t expected to see Lance like this, head down and defeated somehow, Chris wants to gather him close and say everything will be okay.

He takes a step forward, but Lance steps aside, and Chris grabs a handful of air.

I need to go.’ Lance´s smile clicks back into place, looking confident and sure as he makes for the door. It´s enough to make Chris doubt what he saw moments before, but he looks closer, and he can almost see Lance spinning his network of lies. I´ve got a cab waiting. I´ll call.’

I´m flying home first thing.’

Lance acknowledges that with a wave of his hand, and Chris presses back against the sink and watches him leave. He´s under no illusion he´ll actually get a call, Lance is tricky like that when he wants to be.

Sighing, he mentally schedules his own call, knowing they need to talk, then prepares to rejoin his friends once more. Endure another half hour before he can blow the joint and go back to his hotel room.

~*~*~*~

Chris loves his house. It´s a concrete example of all he´s achieved. It´s decorated to his taste, each room perfect. His theatre, his bar, a full garage, with a space bull standing next to the cars, he loves it.

It only emphasises how alone he is.

Switching on the TV, Chris selects the news channel. He likes the twenty-four hour news channel, even if this presenter´s a tool. They always are, this early in the morning. Chris thinks they must stick the failures in the four am slot, those presenters that just can´t cut it with the big boys. Like this idiot, with his beaming smile and perfect white teeth. He´s far too chirpy as he announces another earthquake in India, as if the death of thousands is worth a smile. Chris scowls, leaving the room with the idiot in mid grin.

The kitchen is full of pre dawn light, casting the room in shades of grey. Opening the fridge, Chris narrows his eyes against the glare and selects the fixings for sandwiches, selects a loaf of thick cut bread out of the cupboard. Digging a spoon into the jar of mayo he adds a dollop to both slices of bread. Ham, tomato then more bread and cut, repeat everything twice more. He walks back into the living room, sandwich in one hand, bottle of beer tucked under his arm.

Chris settles into the corner of the couch, just as the clock in the corner of the screen hits the hour. He gives the TV the finger when the idiot presenter winks, the same stupid wink he does as he signs off each morning, as if his idiotic fake friendliness will get him noticed.

The weather follows, and Chris takes a bite of his sandwich, wondering if it´s going to be warmer in France today. They´ve been unseasonably cold for the last week, apparently, and he´s tired of seeing the same shots of the Eiffel Tower surrounded by snow.

He swallows the last bite of sandwich as a thawing Paris appears, thankfully slightly warmer today. Maybe now they'll have to think of some other inane random shit to fill the world weather slot with. Tucking up his legs, feet pushed into the soft cushions of his sofa, Chris grabs the remote, and Big Ben changes into a picture of Justin. It figures, and Chris rests the control on his knee as Justin is initiating a sing-a-long which has Chris singing both the male and female lines.

On screen, Justin smiles, and Chris misses him desperately. He can admit that in these pre dawn hours when he´s alone. They´re still friends, sure, but it's different from before. Rationally Chris knows that´s inevitable, but still; it hurts.

Impulsively, Chris flips open his cell. He doesn´t bother working out time zones, if he wakes Justin they´ll just have to deal. Ten rings and Chris doesn´t leave a message, hangs up at the first words of pre recorded message. Dropping the phone on the table, he drums his fingers against the arm of the couch. He´s not tired at all, instead he rides the buzz of alcohol, moving from TV to the computer: sports shows and online porn, and finally he resorts to changing his top eight at MySpace, selecting a new theme as the sun begins to rise.

~*~*~*~

CK! Party!’

Chris buries his head further under his pillow, but his stupid friends have loud voices and the answering machine is set too high. He sighs into the mattress, warm air blowing back against his skin. Fighting against the pull of sleep, Chris rolls across the bed, kicking at the covers as the machine clicks off with a last whoop.

His joints protest as he sits upright, and he cups his hands over his knees. They´re slightly swollen and he pushes his fingers against the puffy flesh, wincing at the ache. Hair falls forward into his eyes, and even when Chris rakes it back, he can see an explosion of curls out of the corner of his eye. He suspects he´s got the worst case of bed-head ever and gives the tangles a careful finger comb before giving up and slipping into his morning routine.

  
~*~*~*~

The party takes on a life of its own. Chris provides beer and snacks, but after that his duty's done. Some doors are locked, hiding the things that are for his eyes alone, but mostly the guests freely wander his house, some of them even trying to be subtle about taking pictures that he´ll see online the next day.

It´s easier to breathe when he´s in a crowd, and there´s no echoing silence or time to think. Chris has done too much of that lately. He´s faced his failures and moved on, to parties and casual dating, and who´s to say that´s wrong?

Chris has his arm around a girl. He grins for the camera, cheek against hers and her hair brushes his face, a wave of glossy blond. He lets the strands slip through his fingers and kisses her cheek. Her hand is on the small of his back, and she tilts her head, pouting slightly and widens her eyes. She doesn´t have to try so hard. It´s inevitable he´ll sleep with her; it was from the first time she grabbed for his hand.

I love your music.’

He doesn´t ask which music she means. It doesn´t matter anyway. The words are meaningless, empty noise used to get to his bed.

They press together and she slips her hand lower, boldly cradling his ass while craning her head. No doubt her friends are watching behind them; they always are. She smells like cherries, sickly and artificial like the lozenges JC used to use for his throat. Chris can taste the scent at the back of his throat, the white noise of wheels against the road, exhaustion and the best friends in the world. His chest tightens and he wraps his fingers around the girl´s wrist, towing her toward the stairs.

She smiles, white teeth and glossy pink lips, a predator in disguise. Chris ignores the triumph in her eyes; she can give him what he wants, and after that, he can´t bring himself to care.

The bedroom door is locked. Chris stretches for the hidden key and lets them inside. He leads her to the bed and sits down, ready for the show. She doesn´t disappoint, seems versed in slipping off her clothes. Her t-shirt lands on the floor, and she cups her breasts, fingers brushing over her nipples, visible through the lace.

Chris reaches for her, hands sliding over the soft skin of her sides as she licks her lips and wiggles out of her jeans. They pool on the floor and she´s standing in bra and panties, confident under Chris´ gaze.

Gonna show me what you´ve got?’ Chris reaches for her, fingertips sliding over the swell of her hips.

She moves into the touch, straddling him, sitting on his lap, licking at his mouth as he unhooks her bra. It lands unnoticed when they fall back onto the bed, and she giggles as Chris flips her over so he´s on top. Her fingers are under his t-shirt, tugging up, but Chris traps her hand with his own. He unfastens his shorts with the other, pushing them down and kicking a leg free. She´s looking up at him, blonde hair against his bed. Her nails scraping against his back, her legs bent against his sides.

It´s good in the way mindless sex can be.

Groping for the woman´s bra, Chris holds it out to her as she sits in the middle of his bed. Her hair´s mussed and her lipstick's smeared, but she's looking around, taking in the details of the room. An early picture catches her eye, one where he´s got his arms around the others, his braids pulled back into messy pigtails.

Here.’ Chris pushes her bra into her hands, cutting off a comment. He doesn´t want to hear how much she loved Nsync, has been a fan from the start. Just shut the door on the way out.’

Pulling on his shorts, he walks into his bathroom, ignoring her sound of protest. He´s coming across as an asshole, but that´s fine. It´s something that gets him through the day.

~*~*~*~

Lance thinks about skipping the meeting, but forces himself to attend. Pulling on tricks learned to defeat first night nerves, he greets the investors with a toothy smile, thankful that the facts and figures are second nature now, numbers drumming through his thoughts in a two part beat.

Sixty minutes later and he leaves with a firm handshake, strolling casually toward the stairs. Riding the elevator is unthinkable today, being confined a reminder of the mental walls that press against his head. He closes his eyes and sees the look on Chris´ face, his promise to call. Lance wishes he´d do it already, end this unbearable waiting.

His cell vibrates in his pocket, and Lance fishes it out, swallowing hard. Then relaxes, back against the cool wall of the stairwell, when he sees Joey´s name.

You´re alive!’

Joey´s loud and obnoxious, always has been. Lance wants to grab him and not let go. So they tell me.’ Lance´s lips curl into a smile, responding to Joey´s unseen grin. What´s up?’

Today´s your lucky day; I´m passing your way soon, so figured I´d visit, take you for lunch maybe.’

You´re a bit out of the way for passing through, Joe.’ Lance sighs and listens to the silence through his cell, waiting as Joey gropes for, then gives up on excuses.

Yeah, well. Whatever. We on?’

It´ll be good to see you.’ It´s the truth; Lance hasn´t seen Joey in weeks. It´s just that Joey sees too much, and Lance swallows against the sourness in his mouth. Wondering about the timing of the call. Has Chris called lately?’

Not since last week, should he have?’

No. I mean... I was just wondering if you´d heard from everyone.’

See, this is what happens when you´re too busy to answer your phone.’

There´s a dull thud in Lance´s ear, distant squeaks as Joey gets himself comfortable. Despite the denials Joey´s a dedicated gossip, and Lance settles himself on the top stair, knees tucked up as he prepares to be caught up with their friends.

~*~*~*~

Chris didn´t expect an answer. Another day of cheery voice mail, and he´s got one foot in his car, determined to find Lance even if it means flying out to California again to hunt him down. Lance picking up is unexpected, and Chris has his thumb over the disconnect button, already poised to end the call.

Chris.’

We need to talk.’

Chris leans against his car. There´s a dog across the road. It keeps running into view, chasing a red ball, floppy brown ears flying back as it runs. It looks happy, doggy smiles, and Chris listens to Lance breathe in his ear.

I know.’ Resignation is heavy in Lance´s voice and Chris wants to say _forget it, I never saw anything_. He considers the out, imagines Lance´s voice without this pull of reality. "I flew down last night. I´m staying at the usual.’

I´m coming over. Don´t go anywhere; don´t even think about going anywhere.’ Chris says, deciding instantly. Pretending achieves nothing and Chris could never look the other way, not about this.

Okay.’ The words are leaden and Lance is anything but okay, but Chris knows he´ll stay. He´ll stay and they´ll talk, even if it´s the last thing either wants to do.

See you soon.’ Snapping shut his phone; Chris rubs at his face. Lance´s misery is twisted around his own and he wants to run back inside and hide. It´s the easiest thing to do, except hiding from himself is one thing, hiding from Lance, when Lance needs him, is different all together.

~*~*~*~

Time folds in on itself on the journey to the hotel where Lance stays when he´s in town. Chris drives with one elbow out the window, false casual even as his skin itches and his stomach churns. He runs through conversations in his mind, but the years he spent handing out advice are hidden under a layer of parties and mindless fun. Time spent pleasing no one but himself, walking his own path in his own way.

It's been easy to lose himself in new friends, people who know nothing about the old Chris and have allowed him to step away from his life before. He´s coasted for years now, except now Lance has changed that. A harsh reminder that he´s drifted too far, losing sight of the people who knew him, and loved him for who he was.

He thought Lance had been happy, except he isn´t at all, and Chris can´t help the crushing guilt. Echoes of before, except this time there´s no one to blame but himself.

Breathing deep, he pulls up, handing over his keys to the valet. He watches as his car is driven away, then slowly walks up the marble steps and through the revolving doors. Lance is waiting inside, lounging in one of the lobby club chairs. He´s dressed Lance casual, green t-shirt and jeans, and Chris can´t imagine how he thought Lance was okay.

Chris.’ Lance stands, outwardly calm but his shoulders are tense and he bites at his thumb as Chris approaches, greets him with a brief back slapping hug.

Lance.’ Chris pushes his hands into his pockets and looks at Lance. It´s like he´s seeing him for the first time in years, and the polish is stripped away under Chris´ gaze. He doesn´t like what he sees, Lance is damaged. That seems obvious when you´re prepared to really see.

Shall we go up?’ Polite, as always, Lance ushers Chris toward the elevator, pushing the button for one of the top floors. They travel in uncomfortable silence and Chris is glad when they're released, walking along the plush corridor to Lance´s suite.

Inside, Lance leads the way to the mini kitchen and Chris follows, sitting on a bar stool as Lance opens the fridge. You want a drink? I´ve got coke. Water.’

I´ll have a soda.’ Chris isn´t thirsty but his hands itch to hold something. He takes the offered diet coke and snaps open the seal. Lance opens a bottle of water, back against the counter as he takes a long drink.

Before. I wasn´t. I mean, it had been a while, and I was desperate. You know how it goes.’

Lance breaks the silence, and his lies are polished and perfect. Chris would believe them, except he´s heard them before. Lying to himself to get through the day.

You can´t do shit like that. You don´t know where he´s been.’ The can scrapes over the counter, turning in Chris´ hands. Lance relaxes slightly and it would be easy to skim the surface with warnings about image, the rants about risk Lance must be expecting, so Chris has to push it. How long?’

How long, what?’ Lance appears confused, and Chris has to admire his acting.

How long have you felt like that? I don´t know why or how, and that´s something I´m ashamed to admit, but I´m not blind.’

I don´t know what you´re talking about.’ Lance sounds collected as he places his water on the counter and faces Chris down. Felt like what? I was drunk, I had sex in a stall. Sure, it was stupid, but that´s all. No underlying crisis.’

So you´re fine. Your life is perfect.’ Chris matches Lance´s stare. He mightn´t have seen it before, but he does now, and he´s not letting this go. Bullshit.’

You´re seeing things that aren´t there.’ Lance stands up straight and anger rolls from him in waves. I´m fine, Chris. Better than fine. My company is doing fine, my personal life is fine. Everything´s fine.’

I don´t believe you.’ It´s uncomfortable facing up to Lance. Chris wants to stand, regain some ground, but he remains seated as Lance paces the room. His shoes squeak against the tiles and Chris has counted almost one hundred steps when Lance freezes. His hands are clenched, fists tight against his thighs.

What do you want me to say? That things are a mess? That I don´t know what the fuck I´m doing half the time, because, hello, welcome to my world. I´m doing the best I can, and I know you can´t understand that, but try.’

Lance doesn´t sound angry; he sounds resigned, words weighted with every failure and expectation thrown his way. It´s the saddest thing Chris has ever heard. Why won´t I understand?’

How could you? You´re you.’ Lance says that as if it means something, and he slumps, the breath leaking from his body when Chris shrugs, wanting to understand but lost all the same.

I need more than that, man.’

It´s. Look at you. You´ve moved on. You don´t need me, us, anymore. You´ve got your band and your friends and this whole life away from Nsync. And that´s great, I´m happy for you, but.’ Lance looks away, gaze fixed on the floor. I guess I´m jealous.’

Of what?’ Chris asks, trying to understand.

Of you.’ Lance talks like it´s simple, and maybe to him it is. He looks up, glance sliding away when he meets Chris´ gaze. Look, it´s nothing I can´t handle. Let´s pretend we did the whole soul searching thing and it´s time for dinner. I´ll pay.’

Lance is wound tight, seemingly ready to crack at a carefully pressed word, and momentarily Chris considers taking the distraction. Carrying his own issues is work enough, he doesn´t know if he has the strength left for more.

I can´t say it´s not tempting, but no.’ This is Lance, and that means everything.

Your loss.’ Lance shrugs, and he´s far away. Chris settles back in his chair, fingers and knees aching to move as he gathers the patience to wait.

I´m not going anywhere.’ Chris bites at a hangnail, watching Lance as he stares out the window.

You´re such an ass.’ It´s almost a shout and Lance slams his palm down on the counter. You want to know why I´m jealous? Jeeze. Maybe I´m jealous because I´m busting my ass and getting nowhere? There´s no Nsync, no singing, and no one thinks I could possibly miss that. You´re all doing your own things and I feel like I´m treading water above a current that´s trying to drag me down. You have seen what they write? What a failure I am? And I´m doing everything to change that, and it´s not working.’ He runs his hands through his hair, toppling the artfully arranged spikes.

No one´s perfect.’ It´s the truth, Chris knows a lot of so-called 'perfect people' . Heck, he knows Justin. None of them are perfect.

I know, but I have to try.’ Lance is deflated now, slumping against the counter as he looks at Chris. I try and I get nowhere. I look at you and I want what you have.’

No, you really don´t.’ Chris can´t help a bitter smile. Lance wanting his life is laughable.

There´s almost silence now, only the air conditioning whirring softly, and Chris watches the blood seep down the side of his nail. He listens to Lance swallow, the soft swish of skin against skin as he rubs his face.

You´ve got the life you wanted. Money, doing what you want,’ Lance says, and Chris sucks his finger into his mouth, pressing his tongue against torn skin as Lance slowly walks to the table, pulling back a chair with a scrape of wood against tile.

I guess. Problem is, I don´t know what the fuck I want. It sure isn´t what I´ve got.’ Chris can hear his own anger, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he watches the thoughts slipping across Lance´s face. He´s staring across the table and it´s uncomfortable, making Chris shift in place.

Half the people I see in meetings think I´m nothing but a washed up boybander,’ Lance says evenly, tone at odds to his words. He´s staring at Chris, challenging, and this conversation is insane.

Most people think I´m washed up, full stop. Too old. Too fat. Too everything.’

I sleep on the kitchen floor more often than my bed.’ Lance leans forward, expression blank.

My couch is my bed; I haven´t slept upstairs for months.’ Lance nods slightly, and Chris takes a sip of soda and waits.

I blow a different stranger every night. No names, just down on my knees in a stall.’

Chris forces himself not to react. It´s not a surprise and Lance is pale, waiting for the reaction to his words.

I sleep with groupies almost every night. As long as they show up, I´ll sleep with them.’ Chris remembers an endless procession of faces, needy hands and lying words. Sleeping with them reminds me I´m alive.’

Lance audibly exhales. I´m chasing someone I´ll never be, and punishing myself each time I fail.’ He smiles then, a curve of his lips that never reaches his eyes. I win.’

Chris flexes his shoulders, trying to push away the tension in his spine. Lance is looking at the table top again and Chris can´t help reaching out, stretching his arm across the glossy wood. We´re both fucked in the head, man, but yeah. You win.’ His fingers are brushing against Lance´s, the tiniest of touches. You want some company?’

You´re offering to babysit?’ Lance keeps his hand in place, and he looks at Chris. There´s years of casual friendship behind them, total trust that's been gradually displaced by surface words. This won´t be easy, but it doesn´t mean Chris can´t try. For both of them.

No, I just figured you needed a friend.’

Lance relaxes then, letting out a held breath with a sigh.

~*~*~*~

The small fridge is almost empty, bottles of water and vodka standing guard over a solitary sealed container. Chris´ lip curls as he peels back the lid, displaying the raw vegetables inside. He takes a carrot stick and bites into it with a watery crunch, chewing as he waves the remains at Lance. This sucks, Bass. If I´m staying for dinner you need real food.’

That is real food.’ Lightning fast, Lance steals the carrot from Chris´ fingers, eating it with a snap of teeth.

Says you.’ Chris eyes Lance, who´s sitting on the arm of the couch, ankles crossed and looking unconcerned, casual pose painted over the tension below. Chris hates seeing it, feels out of his depth. He takes a baton of red pepper, eating without tasting.

It's a hotel, I usually eat out. We could order in?’ Lance looks at his cell, considering.

Good, because I don´t intend to starve to death while I´m here, and I hate hotel restaurants.’ Celery unravels in Chris´ mouth and he´s got a finger-nail between his teeth, picking at the strands.

Chinese.’

It´s not a question and Chris sucks in a last strand of celery, shaking his head. Chinese is good and all, but he´s craving Mexican, the familiarity of spicy meat and greasy tacos. Mexican.’ He´s prepared to argue his case but Lance shrugs, and that´s not how things are supposed to go at all.

There´s a Taco Bell close by, I´ll phone the concierge, get someone to deliver.’ Lance moves to the phone next to the bed. He sits, leg curled under him and handset tucked against his ear as he looks at Chris. What do you want?’

Two grande soft tacos, some of those cheesy potatoes and an apple pie. Soda too, Mountain Dew.’ Lance nods, pressing a button on the phone. Within minutes he´s arranged for a delivery and repeats Chris´ order, adding a chicken burrito fresco style for himself.

They´ll deliver in about thirty minutes.’ There´s a clatter as Lance replaces the handset, and then awkward silence. Stretching uncomfortably as Chris picks at the hole in his jeans, pulling at the threads, tiny white snakes against blue denim.

I had a thing, tonight.’ Lance looks up, and colour briefly tinges his cheeks. I need to cancel.’ The suite comes complete with balcony and Lance stands, pulling open the glass doors. He steps out into the darkness, pulling the doors shut, and leans against the railings, one elbow over the metal bars as he opens his cell.

Chris watches for a moment, and he hates the bright toothy smiles, the silent laughter as Lance talks into his phone. It makes Chris dizzy, a spectator as Lance switches from happy to not, and Chris has to jump to his feet and look away. He feels hollow inside, empty, and rocks from foot to foot as he considers leaving, driving back home.

Sorry. You know how it is.’ Lance´s cell hits the bed and he´s throwing out tension that thickens the air.

It´s hard to breathe and Chris´ chest aches as he makes himself sit down, curled in the corner of the couch as Lance kicks off his shoes and sits too. They´re close but a chasm lies between them, filled with unspoken words that make Chris´ skin prickle as he sighs, leans forward to grab the remote half hidden under Lance´s thigh.

I´m not going to watch any of your lame ass shows, so don´t even ask.’ His hand is half on the remote, half against Lance´s leg, and Chris pressed his fingers hard, feels Lance solid and warm.

You know you like West Wing, so don´t even.’ There´s an unexpected sting of finger against forehead, a hint of genuine smile and Chris glares in return. Lance is an idiot and Chris doesn´t like West Wing at all, and even if he did so what? Rob Lowe is hot.

I´m the guest, I pick.’ It´s Chris´ last word on the subject and he pulls the remote free, switching on the TV. The room fills with flickering light as he surfs through the channels, skipping anything Lance expresses interest in, and finally settles on a re run of The A Team that makes Lance scrunch up his face in an unsaid no.

Hiding the remote under a cushion, Chris turns to face Lance, who´s pointedly looking away, focussed on the screen. Do it.’ Lance shakes his head but that´s no deterrent at all and Chris pokes him in the thigh. Do it, come on. For me.’

I hate you,’ Lance says, but he´s already agreed. He rubs his hand over his face, and the years slip away leaving him bleached blond and seventeen as he squares his shoulders and growls. Shut up, fool.’

Lance throws in some _suckers_ and _I pity the fools_ and Chris is laughing helplessly as Lance grins in return. They´re missing JC who does a passable Murdock but still, it´s like stepping back in time and Chris leans closer to Lance, breathing easier as they watch TV.

~*~*~*~

Lance takes a hundred from his wallet, handing it to the bellhop who´s just brought their food and waves away her offer to set the table, there´s enough strangeness tonight without eating takeout with silver cutlery and china plates. The paper sacks are warm in his hands, and he places them on the coffee table, making the glass fog with the heat.

I´ll be mom.’ Chris leans forward and opens a bag. Dividing the contents, he separates a drink and burrito, then sighs at the remaining food. Worrying at the wrapping of a taco, Chris looks briefly at Lance. I don´t usually, I mean. It´s been a long day.’

It takes Lance a moment to catch up, and only then because he´s seen that expression before, unguarded moments before PR visits on tour. Everyone eats, Chris.’ He unwraps his burrito, picking at the chicken.

And some eat too much.’ Chris shrugs, and looks away before he bites into his taco, sauce dribbling onto his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, and the movement is sharp, hinting at battles Lance can never fully understand. It´s tempting to wade in with reassurances that Chris looks fine, because he does, better than fine, but words like that will be perceived as lies. Lance knows that only too well.

They eat in almost silence, rustling wrappers and slurping soda, and Lance sucks at his fingers as Chris eats the last bite of potatoes, lying back on the couch with a soft outtake of breath. His hands are resting on his stomach, ankle against one knee and he closes his eyes. Dark eyelashes against his cheeks and Lance can´t look away. Familiar attraction rears, and that would be the greatest punishment of all.

I´m beat.’ Chris toes off his shoes and they hit the floor with a heavy thud. I´m gonna´ crash here; shower then steal a blanket from your bed.’ He heads for the bathroom and Lance follows, selecting clothes that Chris can wear overnight. There a water muffled thanks as he puts them inside, then he wanders the suite gathering wrappers, scrunching them in his hands.

There´s the sound of muffled singing under splashing water, and Lance listens to the chorus of _This I Promise You_. He mouths the words, chest tight and missing them all desperately.

Trashing the rubbish, Lance leans against the back of the couch, watching through the bedroom door as Chris appears in a cloud of steam. There´s toothpaste in the corner of his mouth and he´s dressed in borrowed grey sweat pants and t-shirt. Pants trailing over his bare feet, and the t-shirt pulled tight, Chris pulls a blanket off the bed, holding it in front of him as he heads for the couch.

No. Leave it.’ Chris looks over, eyebrow raised and Lance ploughs on, knowing this is a bad idea but this is _Chris_ and sharing a bed with him will be fine. The bed´s plenty big for both of us.’

You sure?’ There are multiple questions behind the words. Lance isn´t sure at all.

Positive.’ He stands, ignoring the look Chris throws his way.

Fine.’ Chris drops the blanket, eyes slightly narrowed as he takes the right hand side of the bed.

I´ll just.’ Lance grabs clean boxers, indicating the bathroom with a sweep of his hand. The floor´s wet and Lance grimaces as his bare feet hit slippery tile and he drops down a towel, rubbing it around with his foot. He concentrates on mopping, sweeping arcs so he can forget about the spare toothbrush next to his own, the fact that Chris knows Lance´s side of the bed. Familiarities he thought he'd left behind years ago, each rediscovery hurting even more.

Lance scrubs at his teeth, foam coating his mouth. Rinsing, he spits in the sink and gargles with mouthwash as he sets out his supplies. Cleanse, tone, moisturise, keep looking your best at all times.

Routine complete he undresses and pulls on his shorts. Reflected in multiple mirrors he looks at himself from every angle, taut stomach, swell of hips, muscled arms. He walks out without a second look.

Chris is propped up in the bed, knees small hills under the covers as he peers at the TV and flicks through the channels, obviously not tired at all. He keeps staring forward as Lance climbs into bed, arranging pillows until they´re sitting side by side. It´s warm and comfortable, and Lance´s shoulders hurt, tension bleeding down his back.

I´m gonna´ go home tomorrow.’ Chris looks up from an episode of _Dog The Bounty Hunter_ and pokes at Lance´s ankle with his toe. You should stay with me a while.’

The next day Lance pays his bill and goes with Chris.

~*~*~*~

Chris´ house is deserted when they arrive, it´s also trashed and Chris kicks at the empties in his hall as Lance drops the bags with a thud. Long streamers of toilet paper snake down the stairs and there´s a pool of something on the floor. It´s a mess, but Chris can´t get annoyed. He allowed this to happen; repeatedly opening his house to people he didn´t know.

I´ll call the cleaning service.’ Lance sits on the stairs, toilet paper surrounding him as he calls for help. Chris leaves him to it and wanders into the kitchen, wincing at the brimming sink filled with glasses and the piles of empty pizza boxes that litter the floor.

That´s a lot of pizza,’ Lance says. He´s standing in the doorway, phone still clasped in his hand. Toeing at the nearest box, he makes the pile wobble dangerously, and Chris imagines the irony of being crushed to death by an avalanche of takeout boxes. Killed by the packaging and not the crap that surely coats his insides.

I´ve got an account.’ Chris shrugs, picks up a wine bottle and puts it down inches away. They deliver; I pay at the end of the week.’

They must love you.’

Well yeah.’ Chris leans back, and the counter is greasy under his hands.

The cleaning service will be here in an hour. Extra deep clean and speed service.’ Lance looks cool and perfect, glaringly out of place in this frat house of a room.

I´ve been busy lately, you know, with the music and stuff. The cleaner left and I didn´t have time...’

I´m not your mom, Chris. I don´t care what your house looks like.’ Lance settles on one of the bar stools, ignoring the chaos that surrounds him.

Chris considers then smiles. My mom doesn´t care either. Well, she pretends like she does, but really, as long as there´s no underwear on the floor she´s good.’

She´s a smart woman.’

Chris nods. His mom is smart, and she shows that by phoning each night to tell him what an ass he´s become. It´s the sad truth, Chris really is an ass.

How about we throw away the empties, then you can call for some of this famous pizza.’ Lance looks at his watch and smiles. We can watch TV while the cleaning´s going on. Prison Break should be on soon.’

It seems very wrong to sit and do nothing while his house is cleaned, but Chris is tempted. He´s hungry, but more importantly, an opportunity to ogle Wentworth Miller with Lance, who always appreciates a hot man, should never be turned down.

I´ll order, you turn on the TV.’

Lance replies with a dorky salute, and Chris shakes his head, happy that at least it´s not the horns.

Lance is yelling for Chris to hurry up already when he eventually finds the phone, half hidden in a giant bag of stale chips. Popping one in his mouth, he sucks until it´s a melted mess on his tongue, and then smiles into the handset when Gloria answers the phone. Five minutes and he´s confirmed that he´s doing great and ordered his usual, adding another pizza for Lance.

The cleaners arrive in a focussed flurry, dozens of people, complete with overalls and plastic buckets filled with bottles and cloths. Chris pushes down his embarrassment as they work around him, scrubbing until his house gleams. The bill makes him wince, but he pays without complaint, adding a hefty tip and an appointment for them to come again.

His house smells lemon fresh mixed with spicy meat and cheese as he sits on the couch, Lance at the opposite end, the pizzas taking the middle cushion for themselves.

A cheese string hangs from Lance´s mouth. He seems properly appreciative of the wonders of Mama G´s, devouring slices like he hasn´t eaten in weeks. In all likelihood he hasn´t, at least the good stuff. Chris doesn´t believe raw vegetables can be considered real food.

This is good.’ Lance takes another bite and that part of Chris that needs to see his friends fed is pleased.

They´re the best,’ Chris agrees, and eats another two slices, one after another, pushing them down on top of the uncomfortable feelings. He's resigned to the fact they need to talk, but he doesn´t want to. What he wants is to stay on this couch and keep watching TV, but despite how Lance looks now, Chris can´t forget his words from the night before.

We should talk.’ Chris eyes the last slice, but he leaves it for now, breakfast for the next day.

There´s nothing to talk about.’ Lance puts a half eaten slice back into the box, and he´s looking down, ignoring Chris´ gaze.

I think there is.’ In moments the atmosphere changes from relaxed to tense. Chris hates the change but this can´t be ignored. What you´re doing. It´s not safe.’

I know that.’ Hostility mixed with sarcasm, and Lance looks at Chris. I know how stupid I.., it is.’

Chris catches the slip. You´re not stupid. What you´re doing is stupid, but you. No’

Lance shrugs, he´s attempting to seem unconcerned, but a myriad of cracks weaken his composure, allowing buried insecurities to shine through. It´s annoying and Chris wants to shake him, make him see sense, instead he inches along the couch until he can give a supportive jab, digging his toes against Lance´s calf.

Lance smiles, small and tight. I´ve tried to stop before. But there´s always something. A knock back for the business, a no to one of my scripts, and I know I shouldn´t let it get to me, but I can´t help it, and I need to do _something_.’

The alcoholic route too clichéd for you?’ It´s a sharp edged comment, based on a reality Chris often thought was inevitable, but Lance shakes his head.

What, and be accused of copying Backstreet again? AJ foiled my chance to develop that addiction.’ He frowns and Chris wishes he could tell if it were a joke. No, went that route for a while, still travel close at times, but no.’

That´s one plus, I guess.’ It´s a small positive in terms of the overall picture, but still, it is a plus.

Yeah, strike alcoholic from the list.’ Lance rolls his eyes, making a slashing movement through the air. He´s a sarcastic bastard, and Chris is duty bound to prod him hard in the side.

There´s a brief scuffle, slapping hands, but Chris pulls back, ending the distraction before it gets hold. Have you ever tried to talk to anyone?’

What, like therapy?’ Lance sits back in his corner, tucking up his knees. I tried once. We ended talking about Justin, she was a fan.’ Chris understands the hint of smile, being friends with Justin comes hand in hand with being asked about Justin, it´s inevitable. Anyway, it felt wrong, talking about stuff like that.’

Chris understands that too, they´ve all spent half their lives hiding the truth. Spilling secrets willingly is something none of them do easily, especially to those on the outside. You can talk to me.’

I know.’ Lance reaches out, and his hand is solid against Chris´ thigh. I appreciate that because I want to stop. I just don´t know how.’

~*~*~*~

There´s only so much deep talking they can take, and soon they´re sitting in the den on the old leather couch. Chris has his feet on the coffee table, laptop on his knee as he checks online. Needing comedy relief he logs onto My Space, checking on his hordes of ‘friends´. Refreshing the page and skimming the comments he laughs when a new one appears. I think your dork status has just achieved new levels.’

Lance looks up from his own laptop, and matches Chris´ smile. What, you don´t like the comment?’

Chris stares at the waving Cat in the Hat. Lance is the poster boy for dork at times and really, Chris shouldn´t be encouraging the behaviour, but still. He turns to Lance, waving in his direction. Hi.’

Lance grins, happiness lighting his eyes as he clicks on a link. This has cleaned up great.’ He´s looking at the Nigels 11 page, reading through the comments to a background of _Who Am I?_.

The guys did good.’ Chris listens, feeling exposed. The song´s so personal; evidence of the time when he existed rather than lived.

You did good,’ Lance adds, and he lets the song play to the end, giving full attention to the words. You should have called, we would have listened.’

Yeah, well.’ Chris shuts his laptop with a snap. Slipping it into the bag, he unfolds from the couch and rubs at his knees. It´s hours before his usual bedtime but he feels exhausted, wrung out and ready for sleep. I´m heading off to bed, take any of the guestrooms.’

Lance keeps his own laptop open, waving Chris away. Will do.’ He stops typing, fingers poised over the keyboard. Thank you, for everything.’

No problem.’ Chris backs out of the room, leaving Lance to his blogging, tiny slices of his life that contain nothing but factual lies. He can hear keys tapping until the foot of the stairs, then there´s the usual silence, his bare feet against the floor as he slowly heads for his room. He pushes open the door; nothing´s changed inside, bedspread messy and Chris pushes it aside as he sits on the edge of his bed.

It´s comforting knowing Lance is downstairs, like a piece of his life has slid back in place and Chris doesn´t want to think what that means. Afraid of being too needy, too dependant on what went before. It´s easier to change into shorts and t-shirt, get into bed without thinking at all.

~*~*~*~

It seems Lance revels in domesticity, and that suits Chris fine. The world isn´t as lonely when Lance is sitting next to the dryer, surrounded by piles of colour sorted clothes. Or bustling around the kitchen, kiss the cook apron wrapped around him and singing along with the radio as he cooks.

Lance likes to cook, a lot, and Chris is happy with his role of helper, even if he complains about being a galley slave.

There´s a pile of chopped vegetables in front of him and Chris rubs his juice-damp hands on a towel. What next, Chef?’ Lance rolls his eyes, but Chris grins, easily ignoring the long suffering sigh

Put them in the big pan on the stove.’ Lance is doing something to chicken breasts, fingers slimy as he massages the meat. They´re covered in marinade; apparently a Bass family recipe handed down the years. Chris pretends to believe him, even if he did see Lance scanning the cupboards and fridge, a print out held in one hand.

Scooping up the vegetables, Chris adds them to the pan of boiling water. There´s already stuff in there, herbs and cubes of potato caught in the bubbles, and he thinks they´re having some kind of soup. Or it could be pureed vegetables as far as Chris knows. Lance is creative with food, and usually that works well. Though the steamed bananas were a disaster: who knew they´d explode?

They´re in.’

Lance looks up from his chicken mess. All the prep´s done then. Great job my lowly apprentice.’

As if.’ Chris shakes his head at Lance who laughs in reply, grinning down at the bowl of chicken. His hands are stained red now, blotches almost to his wrist.

Pulling out a chair, Chris sits so he can watch Lance work. There´s half a bag of M and M´s on the table and he pulls them close, grabbing a handful of the brightly coloured candy. Crunching shells and chocolate, and Chris is reaching for another handful even as he eats the first.

Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.’ Lance says, with no accusation. He doesn´t even look over at all, just keeps keep laying the chicken on the wire rack. The words still feel like a slap.

Tipping the chocolate into his mouth, Chris chews, reaches out again. They haven´t talked about this, but the healthy meals, the new low fat cook books piled on the shelf say it all.

It´s something he doesn´t want to talk about. It´s easier to ignore, because it´s so stupid, so minor. He´s fat; it´s as simple as that. Cut down eating, exercise more. In relation to other problems, it´s nothing.

He keeps telling himself that as he empties the packet, swallowing down the last mouthful of chocolate as Lance puts the chicken under the grill.

~*~*~*~

It feels like Lance has been here forever, breakfasts with the newspapers spread over the table and knees. They talk, but it's confined to things that don´t matter, and late nights watching TV. Chris has seen Lance´s proposals, aware of anxious looks as he read, but they´re good, and Lance didn´t hide his smile when he hears Chris's opinion.

Chris´ friends have been told he´s got guests, meaning no visitors for days. It´s easy and comfortable, hiding away from the world and Chris knows it can´t last forever, but for now it´s exactly what they need.

After a nasty battle, Chris has charge of the TV control. Jabbing fingers and sneak attacks to ribs, but there could be only one winner, especially when he shoved Lance from the couch with a well placed foot.

Channel surfing, Chris taps his fingers against his knee, bored waiting for Lance, who´s taking a bathroom break. He stops on MTV, another _Making the Band_ show, and Chris watches with sick fascination, the parade of beautiful people on his TV. They´re naïve and innocent, unaware of the inevitable hard times ahead, but still, he can see their determination to succeed.

Watching, his own memories overlap the scenes on screen. When they were all so young, standing on the edge of success none of them could fully imagine. They´d shared an unfailing belief that they´d succeed, and they had.

Sometimes Chris misses that time so much it hurts.

There´s a boy onscreen. He´s dark haired and smiling, nothing special at all. Then he speaks, and the confidence shines, ego and self-confidence in a small polished package. Watching is hard, a reminder that even if they do get together again they´ll be old news. Competing in a race weighted to the young and the beautiful.

I´ve seen this one,’ Lance says, he´s carrying two steaming mugs and hands one to Chris. It´s Lance´s special recipe hot chocolate, and they´ve become so quickly domesticated that Chris can´t think of a time they didn´t do this every night.

Watch it again then.’ Chris shifts so Lance can stretch along the couch, his bare toes resting against Chris´ thigh. They´re singing onscreen now, and he sips at his drink, fingers wrapped around the mug.

Do you miss it?’

Lance is looking at the TV, and Chris thinks before answering. He does miss it, despite his new band, his friends, it´s not the same. When he was bound tightly with four others, they were his life for years, and now he´s been cut loose. How can he not miss it? Yeah.’

Lance nods, and they´re silent, listening to the song.

Would you still go back?’ Lance asks, and he´s watching the screen, not looking at Chris at all.

Chris hesitates, his immediate answer yes, but unwanted reality always rears when he thinks this through. I´ve got a busted knee and I'm hardly boyband material anymore. That´s what they want, not me.’ Chris indicates the TV and he expects Lance to joke, snark at the girl onscreen. Anything but the sudden anger as he turns, slopping hot chocolate over the top of his mug.

You need to quit that. You´ve put on weight. So what? You´ll lose it, you always do. And even if you don´t, you look fine.’

You trying to boost my ego, Bass?’

Exasperated, Lance sighs. Fine, don´t take me seriously.’

I am, it´s just. I know what the want and it´s not me.’ Chris shrugs. It´s true after all.

~*~*~*~

Chris stretches out on the lounger, turning his face to the sun. It´s bordering on too hot and he´s sweating in t-shirt and shorts, but it would take too much energy to move inside. Instead he listens as Lance swims, powering across the pool with a series of rhythmic splashes.

Chris. Phone!’

He must have been dozed off because Lance has his arm hooked over the side of the pool, waving and pointing at Chris´ cell.

Got it.’ Lance slides back into the water and Chris picks up his phone, shading his eyes to look at the display. He´s not surprised when it starts to ring again, a thrash cover of _Rock Your Body_ , Justin´s always been impatient, and that includes calls.

Hey.’ Chris wiggles back down, making himself comfortable. Justin´s chats can either be seconds or hours, it´s always best to be prepared.

You haven´t called, in like days. What´s up?’ There´s concern under the joking tone and Chris frowns at the phone, Justin is a mother hen and it´s not like Chris was calling _every_ day.

I´ve been busy is all. Not like some people who spend their lives flipping off the paparazzi and vacationing with their girlfriends.’ Chris considers taking offence at Justin´s disbelieving snort, but the sight of Lance´s tanned and toned body in the pool mellows him, and he lets it go.

I hear you´ve taken in a roomie.’ Mother hen, annoying, and a gossip. Really, Chris doesn´t know why Justin´s his friend.

Lance is good company; he tidies after himself and doesn´t wake me up on his morning run. Unlike some people I know.’

Once. Once I woke you up. You´re going to throw that in my face until my grave?’ Chris considers. Three years is a long time and for all his faults he does love Justin, plus he´s feeling generous today.

Okay, I guess I can let it go.’

I´ll remember that.’ Justin stops speaking and Chris can hear the distant sound of his voice, as if the phone is hidden behind his hand. I have to go. I don´t know what´s up with you and Lance, but I´ll be flying your way in a week or so. You can cook me dinner.’

Pizza it is then.’ Justin laughs, just as Chris knew he would, and he´s looking forward to seeing him, while not wanting to at all. I´ll see you then, love you.’

Love you, we´ll talk soon.’ Justin rings off and Chris stares at his phone, looking up when droplets of water hit his face.

J?’ Lance is standing over Chris, sun kissed and golden as he sweeps his hand across his hair.

Yeah, he´s coming over in a week, says he wants dinner.’

Like he can´t afford his own.’ Lance sends another shower of droplets at Chris, tiny spots of relief against his over heated skin. You´d be cooler if you took the t-shirt off.’

I´ve seen what´s under it, so that´s a no.’ Lance frowns and sits down, using his hip to scoot Chris over, his trunks leaving a wet patch against Chris´ thigh.

I´ve told you. You look fine.’

Says Mr People´s Torso of the Month.’ Lance´s hand is on the swell of Chris´ stomach, fingers splayed over the layer of pudge and Chris wants to push it away. Lance doesn't give in, and Chris eventually lies still, allowing the touch.

You should come swim with me, it won´t hurt.’ Lance moves his hand, resting it on Chris´ knee.

Rationally Chris knows it´s not an attack or an insult, but he can´t help the immediate rush of angry feelings. He pushes them down, forcing himself to relax as Lance carefully traces the ridges left by Chris´ brace.

It´ll be good for your knee.’

That´s true, but Chris can´t help hearing other implications in the words, and he fights against each one.

Two laps. Winner does the washing up tonight.’ It´s a bribe and Chris shouldn´t fall for it, but he´s hot and Lance is looking at him. There´s worry hidden in his expression and Chris hates to see it. Lance shouldn´t worry about anyone but himself.

Last one in does the breakfast dishes.’ A flurry of movement and Chris pushes himself off the lounger. Lance overbalances, landing on the ground as Chris runs to the pool, launching himself in with a splash. He hits hard and it stings like crazy, but he comes up laughing. Swimming for the opposite side as Lance scrambles to his feet and dives in.

It´s a close thing. Lance is a good swimmer but Chris has the head start, winning by seconds. He stands next to the wall, panting as Lance ducks his head under the water, surfacing in a shower of glimmering droplets.

I´ll win next time.’ Lance is smiling, and he smoothes back his hair until it´s sleek against his head.

If I let you.’ Wet curls fly as Chris shakes his head. Bringing up his feet, he sinks and looks into the water, watching his wavering pasty legs.

How about tomorrow? Winner makes lunch.’ Calmly casual and Chris is being played again but he can´t bring himself to care. He´s cool at last and Lance is only trying to help. This time it won´t hurt to let him.

~*~*~*~

Dinner, late night TV and a game of mock the video on MTV later and Chris is in bed and fast asleep. He wakes when the bed dips, and it feels like he´s only slept for minutes. Opening his eyes he squints at Lance who´s standing over him, washed out by the moonlight that floods the room.

Experience suggests visits like this are never good, and worry flares as Chris struggles up in bed. His heart races, sleepiness replaced by concern as Lance remains frozen in place.

Are you okay?’ Chris is hyper aware, the shadows flickering across the room, the speed of Lance´s breathing, the sudden unexpected feel of Lance´s hand, fingers stroking and warm against Chris´ side.

This is stupid, and the worst idea ever, but I figured why not?’ Lance is whispering, soft words muffled in the dead of night. He moves his hand upwards, caressing, and Chris can´t move, bites at his lip as Lance leans in, words tickling across Chris´ jaw. You´re so beautiful.’

It´s the reality slam Chris needs. This is beyond a bad idea, Lance. Like, you´re heading toward the worst idea ever.’ He takes Lance´s hand, gently moving it to one side. He missed the contact and there´s a horrible moment when he thinks Lance is about to beg, and Chris doesn´t know if he´s strong enough to say no.

I´m sorry.’ Lance takes a step back from the bed, defences slamming down. Chris knows there´s seconds before he flees, and he kicks at the sheets, sending them sliding to the floor.

Lance, no. Wait.’ There´s no time for thought, and he acts instinctively, pulling Lance into a hug. At first he resists, but Chris holds on until Lance lets out a breath, body relaxing as he leans in. I can´t be part of this thing you´ve got going. Anything else, but not this.’

I know.’ Lance´s words are warm against Chris´ neck, whispered confessions as Chris holds on. It´s just, I think too much at night. During the day I can justify things, I know I´m doing okay, that everyone has problems, but at night.’ Lance shudders, tiny shivers under Chris´ hands. I shouldn´t have I´m sorry.’

He breaks the hug then, and Chris lets him. Watching as Lance slowly walks from the room with shoulders slumped and head bowed. Chris wants to follow, but there´s nothing he can do. Instead he climbs back into bed, staring at the ceiling for hours, achingly aware he´s just said no to something he´s wanted for so long.

  
~*~*~*~

Lance wakes up curled on the couch. Shame is an immediate ache, fuelled by the events of last night. They play through his head in an unwelcome detailed film. The warmth of Chris´ skin under his hand, the look in Chris´ eyes when he realised why Lance was there. It´s mortifying in so many ways, his lack of control, his obvious need. He wants to run, flee to the airport and home.

Peeling himself off the leather, Lance sits, hunched over and rubbing at his gritty eyes. As much as he wants to, he won´t go home; there´s nothing to go home for. At least here he´s got Chris, that is, if he still wants him to stay. Humiliated, Lance remembers Chris moving his hand, but also his words. _anything else but not this_. They´re something to hang onto, that Chris won´t cast him aside. Not that he would anyway. Rationally Lance knows that, the problem is believing it.

Gathering courage, Lance goes to the hall and listens for signs of life. It´s nine-thirty and usually Chris listens to the radio as they make breakfast, singing along and bitching through the news. Today there´s nothing, and Lance can´t help feeling he´s been left alone.

Heart rate starting to pick up, Lance looks in the kitchen, the dining room, runs upstairs, feeling more illogically abandoned at each empty room. He´s about to check outside when he hears a clank of metal. Following the sound he finds Chris in the utility room, arms full of laundry and using his knee to close the dryer door.

Lance.’ Cheeks flushed from the heat, Chris glances at Lance over an armful of sheets which he drops into a waiting basket. Pulling one free he shakes it out, and it´s so incredibly normal that Lance automatically holds out his hands when a corner comes his way. Chris hums under his breath as he folds, some nameless tune, but still, Lance finds himself humming along.

The last sheet is folded and Chris stills a moment, thoughts chasing across his face. Lance is frozen too, heart racing and waiting. Finally Chris looks at Lance. There´s no hint of smile, just a direct stare and it´s as if he can see each unsaid word. Take in and examine each hidden feeling. It´s uncomfortable and Lance rubs at his face, the scent of fabric softener ingrained in his skin.

What happened last night. It can´t happen again. I´m not those people.’

Lance is about to protest. Chris could never be classed with those nameless strangers. As much as they use Lance, he uses them too, and he´d never treat Chris that way. Last night was something different, going after something he wanted while knowing he´d fail. Realisation hits along with burning shame.

It won´t happen again.’ It´s a promise Lance intends to keep, he won´t use Chris like that. He´s so much more than strangers in a bar.

Good. Because my heart can´t take finding hot young men in my bed.’ A fleeting hint of smile and Chris scratches at his chin, finger nails rasping through his thick morning beard. You know, what I said before, about being here if you need to talk. The offer still stands.’

I know.’ Lance appreciates the offer, even if he won´t take it up. He hasn´t the words to explain to himself yet, never mind anyone else.

Okay then, emotionally charged moment in my laundry room over. It´s time for you to make my breakfast.’ Chris can switch from serious to apparently carefree in an instant, and he slaps Lance hard on the ass. Go on, the eggs are waiting.’

Lance thinks about protesting, but really, it´s pointless. Scrambled or poached?’

~*~*~*~

Lance has always had a calculating streak that leads itself perfectly to carefully crafted jokes. Chris loves that about him, especially when he suggests prank calling JC.

Settled at the kitchen table, Lance makes the call, phone on speaker so Chris can listen in.

There´s silence and rustling, and Chris can imagine JC struggling out of sleep, bleary eyed and yawning as he gropes for his phone. Hello.’

JC Chasez! This is Jim P. Barick from the Daily Mirror. Our readers would like to know how you feel about being sued by one of your former friends?’ Chris gives an approving thumb up for Lance´s English accent as JC audibly exhales, his own warning of concealed anger.

You´re a bit late, that story has been denied for weeks now.’

It was your party, you brought the paint into the house, surely you have guilt about him losing an eye? The man was a guest, one of your friends, and now he´s doomed to a life with a glass eye.’

He hasn´t lost an eye. No one´s lost an eye.’ JC´s spent years being polite to reporters, and he´s hanging onto his manner  just.

Have you offered to pay medical expenses? Buy him a state of the art eye? Surely you have some guilt? It was your party.’

No, I´m not buying anything, there´s no need. Everyone has their eyes.’ Lance holds up a hand and Chris gives a silent high five as they listen to JC´s struggle for composure.

You´re in your thirties now, isn´t that too old for paint fights?’

 _Just_ in my thirties and.’

Lance talks over JC´s protests. I guess friendship means so little, in your game. Still it makes good copy. Chasez friend says Bye Bye Bye to eye.’ There´s a strangled noise over the speaker, and Chris has no idea how Lance keeps going, voice serious despite his huge grin.

We contacted Mr Timberlake earlier, he said, and these are his exact words _JC is prone to violence at times. We tried to keep it on the downlow, but well, this was bound to happen. He threw a muffin at me once. Muffins, paint, it´s all the same to him._ Have you any comment to that, Mr Chasez?’

There are no missing eyes and Justin deserved a muffin to the face!’ A frustrated shout followed by muffled white noise. Then he comes back onto the line, tone suspicious. Wait a minute. Justin´s away with his girl this week. No way could you contact him. What did you say your name was?’

Jim P. Barick.’ The game´s up, and Lance knows it too, his laughter mingling with Chris´ as JC curses loudly.

Bastards.’ Chris wipes at his eyes, can hear JC´s smile over the phone.

You´re too easy, man.’ It´s true, at least when JC´s half asleep and unthinking. He´s prime joke material then, something that´s been proven many times over the years.

Whatever.’ There´s a dragging sound, covers against skin, and JC´s voice is sleepy again, hushed over the miles. Chris misses him desperately, misses them all even as Lance sits at his side. How´s things? I hear you two have quite the bachelor lifestyle going on.’

If you call Lance´s sucky cooking and watching a load of TV a bachelor lifestyle, yeah.’ There´s a kick against his calf, and Chris kicks back as Lance leans closer to the phone.

You know that thing he tries to make with the sausage and melted cheese?’ Lance looks up at Chris, grin sly. It still hasn´t improved.’

Like you didn´t eat it.’

Never said I didn´t.’ Lance is all innocence but Chris knows better, watches him through narrowed eyes. There´s a beginning of a staring contest, but JC breaks in, talking through a yawn.

I´m in the studio later so I´m gonna´ catch a few more hours. Talk later, okay.’

Lance hangs up in a muddle of goodbyes and as soon as he catches Chris´ eye they´re laughing once more.

~*~*~*~

Lying in bed, Chris can´t help thinking. The awkward talk starting the day, the laughter later, cooking and dinner on trays as they watch _American Idol_. Lance tense as he waits for the results.

Some moments have been uncomfortable, cracks appearing in Lance´s cheery façade. Brief flashes they pretend not to see. More than anything Chris is pissed at the people who´ve made Lance feel this way. Each person who implied he wasn´t good enough, everyone who sneered and forced him to change, becoming someone he was never intended to be.

Lance is one of the best people Chris knows, always determined to succeed. That determination is working against him now, making him push forward despite the obstacles in his way. It´s not surprising he´s cracking, and Chris wishes he could go back in time, persuade everyone not to make that call.

Except even thinking about losing Lance is wrong. As screwed up as last night was, Chris can´t forget the touch of Lance´s hand, how close he was as he spoke. Words recited lines, but still, Chris remembers them all. Replays each one, because Chris knows Lance, but he also knows himself. This won´t go anywhere. It can´t.

Long buried feeling ripped open and exposed, Chris lies in the darkness listening for any noise. He dreads Lance appearing at his bedside, but at the same time, wishes he were here now.

~*~*~*~

Lance sits on the side of his bed. Yesterday had been good, but insecurity has come crashing down in the silent darkness of night. He´s exhausted and rubs at the crescent shaped indents in his palms, welcoming the sting as he forces himself to start moving, start another day.

Stripping, he starts the shower, stepping under the spray, letting the water pound against his skin, heat a distraction from the thoughts circling his mind.

Things have gone too far, and Lance is tired, torn between the man he was and the man he wants to be. Knowing things need to change, he steps out of the cubicle and runs his hand over the fogged mirror, staring at the stranger who wears his face.

It´s someone Lance doesn´t want to see, and momentarily he pulls back his arm, ready to smash his fist into the glass. He lets it drop, the edge he´s walking a chasm under his feet. There´s a choice of falling or stepping onto solid ground, and Lance doesn´t want to fall.

His robe´s hanging behind the door, and he pulls it on, tying the belt as he walks downstairs. He can hear Chris in the kitchen, singing along to the radio as he works at the stove. There´s bacon frying and piles of toast on the table, orange juice and coffee, normality that Lance grabs with both hands.

I´ve been thinking’

I wondered what the sound was,’ Chris doesn´t turn around, keeps frying bacon, and Lance can hear the grin in his voice.

Choosing to ignore the interruption, Lance walks further into the room. I´ve had enough. Not producing, I love that. The other. I´m tired of it dragging me down. What I did to you was the last straw.’

Chris transfers the bacon to a plate and turns off the burner, turning to look at Lance. You hardly did anything to me. It´s not like getting propositioned by you was a bad thing, just, dude. Terrible timing.’ There´s something hidden in his voice, and Lance gropes to understand. Shifting through his own mess of thoughts as Chris transfers plates to table.

I propositioned you.’

Yeah.’ Chris stops pouring coffee into a mug, and he´s looking at Lance like he´s insane, and maybe he is, driven there by the thoughts speeding through his head.

And it wouldn´t have been a bad thing, except for my whole self appointed punishment issue?’ Lance is talking to himself, but Chris puts down the coffee pot and answers anyway.

Knowing that sort of took the pleasure out of you wanting to suck my dick. Funny that.’

Lance isn´t listening, convinced he´s seeing things wrong but needing to clarify anyway. Which means otherwise you would have welcomed it.’

Jesus, Lance. What do you want me to say? You´re hot, like, seriously hot and yeah, another time I´d have said yes. But it´s not and I know you only came to me because I was there, so.’ Chris breaks off, and Lance´s heart thumps hard in the silence of the room.

Trying to make sense of everything, Lance picks through Chris´ words. I need to. I´ll be back.’ It´s ridiculous running away, but Lance needs to think, and he has to do that alone.

There´s a crash but it sounds like plates against the floor, not Chris´ hand against the wall. Lance keeps moving, ending up at the pool. The tile is cool against his bare legs when he sits, and he dangles his feet in the water, watching ripples shimmer across the surface.

It feels like he´s on the verge of something that´s happening too fast, too suddenly. It´s scary in so many ways, taking yet another chance on something that matters. Lance has lost before, important things torn from his grasp. Losing Chris is more than he could bear. It would be easier to ignore the chance, pretend he didn´t hear, but surely there´s a point you have to say no more?

Lance knows fear, and it isn´t space camp or jumping out of a plane. He needs to face this head on.

You´re wrong,’ Lance announces as he walks back into the kitchen where Chris is sitting at the table, shredding a slice of toast. It wasn´t the only reason I came to you the other night. Mostly, yeah, but not all.’

Are you saying you want me, like that? Because I find that hard to believe.’ Chris crosses his arms, defensive. All this time and never a hint, and now you´ve got this thing going and suddenly you´re saying you´d come on to me in the middle of the night. That´s bullshit, Lance. Play your masochistic games with someone else.’

I know it sounds bad, but you have to believe me.’ Lance´s head is spinning and he doesn´t know what he´s doing at all, but he knows it´s right, can feel it as he takes an impulsive steps forward, stealing a kiss, Chris´ mouth tight against his own.

What the hell was that?’

That´s a promise I guess.’ Lance sits down on a chair, and he´s all too aware of how cold his feet are, the wood that digs into his thighs, the confusion in Chris´ eyes as he sits in the chair opposite. They´re facing one another over the empty breakfast dishes, and Lance hates he´s made Chris feel so bad. I´m so fucked in the head right now.’

You and me both,’ Chris says, as if it´s the most normal thing ever, and maybe for them it is. They share a look, and Chris starts picking at the slice of toast again, shredding the crusts. It´s not that I don´t want you. It´s just. It wouldn´t be right. Not yet.’

So we have a promise instead.’ It all makes sense to Lance, and he wills Chris to understand. Things are too unsettled right now, but the commitment is there, something solid to hold onto and Lance knows all it´ll take is time.

A promise meaning?’

Meaning I stay here, or you come with me and we´ll see how it goes.’ Lance reaches across the table, and Chris takes the hint, linking their fingers together, joined between the orange juice and toast.

I don´t think it´ll be that easy.’ Chris tightens his grip, and there´s worry threaded through his words. If thing go wrong, it´ll be this huge mess.’

It´s true, but things are a mess now, and Lance needs to try. He´s been lost so long and Chris feels like home. I like you, we´ve been friends forever, I´m attracted to you’

Of course you are. Who wouldn´t be?’ It´s humour as a shield, but Lance easily sees through it. He´s seen the insecurities and maybe he can´t fix them, but he won´t let Chris hide behind them either.

Shush, we´re having a moment.’

With a deep sigh and a roll of his eyes, Chris waves his hand, scorn written in the air. Fine, carry on with the moment.’

 _Fine_. I will.’ There´s a moment of glaring and curled lips, then Lance pushes aside the distraction, holding tight to Chris´ hand as he tries to pull it free. I´m attracted to you. I think you´re hot.’

You obviously need’

If you mention glasses, I´ll hurt you.’ Shutting down Chris´ objection, Lance carries on. Despite recent actions, I´m not stupid. I know my own mind. I know what I like, and at the risk of inflating your ego, that´s you.’

I think you´re insane,’ Chris says, but he runs his thumb over Lance´s hand, tiny movements as he takes a deep breath and Lance is holding his breath, desperately hoping he´ll take this step. But. I guess I trust you.’

Good, because I´m right about this.’ Lance grins at Chris´ snort of disbelief. This thing they´ve got going could be everything or nothing. As he stands, pulling Chris close, and wrapping him in a hug, he hopes it´ll be everything. All they can do is try.

  



End file.
